


The Possible Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes' Kid

by megawords19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Omega, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M, Omega Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megawords19/pseuds/megawords19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wish I could tell you that I'm perfect. I wish I could tell you that I'm everything my parents wanted me to be and more, but I'm not sure that's true. What I can tell you is that I am the daughter of Omega Sherlock Holmes and Alpha Dr. John Watson and I'm willing to tell you about my life.</p><p>This is my first attempt at Sherlock fan fiction and Omegaverse. I want to write an Omega verse that is fun, interesting, and not all smut.<br/>Please leave me feedback and tell me if I have succeeded, thanks!!<br/>All trigger warnings that typically apply to Omegaverse also apply to this story...just to be safe side...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Notes on my version of Omegaverse/Story Preface

Notes on my version of Omegaverse/Story Preface 

This section is for those who are new to Omegaverse fanfiction and for those who want to understand my version of Omegaverse from the outset.  
That said, I do try to mention and explain a lot of these parameters in the story itself.

This section is just so those parameters can be laid out in black and white.  
The incredibly talented and kind Fresne has agreed to let me steal some gems from her incredibly rich Omegaverse alternate universe.  
Here is a link to her incredibly detailed description of Omegaverse biology.  
http://archiveofourown.org/works/676999/chapters/1239883 

The one thing I don't think she covers is the concept of heat.  
Heat occurs when Omegas are most fertile.  
Heat sends both Alphas and Omegas into periods of being sex crazed.  
My version of Omegaverse will mostly correspond with Fresne's version.

That said, everyone who writes Omegaverse writes it a little differently.  
In my story there are heat suppressant drugs that act like birth control and also help suppress some of the hormone/sent/sex craziness.  
I have also changed the age of dynamic identification to 12/puberty instead of Fresne's specified age of 9 years old.  
Also in my story it is important to note that there are only men and women Alphas and Omegas. There are no Betas.

You should also know that in my story, there is what's called a 'traditionalist view.'  
Traditionalists think that Alphas should be aggressive, take charge breadwinners and Omegas should be nurturing and child rearing homemakers.  
In other words, the traditionalist view is the same as the division of labor between well-off men and women in the '50s. The Alphas have the man's role and the Omegas have the women's role.

During the time of my story, the ideas of Omegas working outside the home and of more balanced division of labor between the two dynamics are gaining social acceptance. However, there are still a lot of traditionalists.  
Perhaps the most unique thing about my version of Omegaverse has to do with how a person’s Omega or Alpha traits manifest themselves outside of the bedroom.  
In my version of Omegaverse, Alphas have a kind of natural magnetism that makes Omegas want to follow and be close to them. This magnetism is called Alpha mode. Most Alphas cannot maintain Alpha mode long for reasons that will be explained in the story.

On the other side of the coin, Omegas have nesting and nurturing instincts. Alphas who are able to maintain Alpha mode/have Alpha magnetism for long stretches are more likely to take care of Omegas with equally strong instincts on the opposite end of the spectrum and vice versa.

There is a popular quote/saying about Omegaverse, "Omegaverse: I came for the porn but stayed for the world building." I'm not sure who the quote is attributed to in cyberspace.

For the record, I'm trying to focus on world building in this story. The reason I've spent so much time trying to explain terminology and parameters is because gender and sex roles have a great impact on any society.  
I hope this section has not bored you to tears or scared you off. In my experience, if an author's version of Omegaverse is not explained, it leads to a lot of confusion.

If you have any comments or questions about my version of Omegaverse and/or my story, I urge you to PLEASE leave me a comment. I will try to respond to you, and hopefully, I will become a better writer because of your feedback, thanks!!!

******

Hey guys,

I've had difficulty writing the story in figuring out the main character's voice and such.  
I know this is unusual, but I would like to make a change in the story.  
When I started posting I said that my main character Sophia, is 10 years old, but that doesn't ring true.  
I'm changing her to a 20 something-year-old looking back at her childhood and more.  
This is my first Sherlock fanfic and I really appreciate your understanding as I worked my way through.  
I hope you enjoy the story and that you will be kind enough to leave comments and kudos, thank you!!!

Blog Preface

When I was at primary school, my teacher Ms. Peters, gave my class an assignment that I could not finish and that failure gave me a wake-up call.  
Ms. Peters told our class to write about a memory that always makes us happy when we think about it. She told us to describe the memory in as much detail as possible.

Immediately, an memory came to my mind. Shortly after I started school, my father Sherlock Holmes, tried to introduce me to the game of chess. His attempts to teach me the rules and moves failed pretty quickly, I had absolutely no interest in the game. My happy memory is how my father change gears, he and I spent hours that day playing pretend with the chess pieces. We pretended to joust with our pieces, trying to protect our queens. My father insisted on being the black knight.

While we were playing, I remember looking up and saying… something that made my father laugh and look at me with sincere pride..

To this day, I still can't remember what I said to make my father look at me that way.  
When I was trying to write about this memory it really bothered me that I could not remember what I said. My father loves me, but he believes that praise and admiration have to be earned.  
What bothered me more than forgetting the words I said was the fact that I forgot the details of something important. For as long as I can remember, my father has told me that paying attention and remembering details is essential. I mean, my father is Sherlock Holmes after all..

I wrote down as much about the memory as I could and turned the assignment in. Ms. Peters ironically gave me full marks even though I still consider that incomplete.  
I was afraid that if I admitted to father that I didn't remember that afternoon completely that he would be disappointed in me. So that day after I got home, I had a cup of tea and a conversation with my dad, Dr. John Watson.

After he listened to me tell him everything about the assignment and my lapse in memory, he told me about starting his famous blog..

"You know, Sophia," he told me.

"When I first came back from Afghanistan my therapist recommended starting a blog. I thought she was nuts, all I did was live in a dingy flat and wish to be somewhere else. then I met your father, all whirling black cloak, high cheekbones, and incredible deductions." At this description both my dad and I couldn't help but smile. 

"Before I knew it, I was running down alleyways and chasing after murders." 

After another sip of tea, my father continued telling me the story.

"I can't tell you how many times I've stopped for a second and thought I can't believe this is my life!!!

I started writing my blog because just like you I can't remember everything that comes out of your father's mouth. I figured asking him for clarification about a case for a blog was better than constantly going how did you do that every five minutes.

As much as I hate to admit that my therapist was right about anything,writing a blog is not only a way to remember, it can also be quite therapeutic.

Your father may say differently, but he loves an audience, people to admire his genius. Don't feel like you can't ask him questions or for clarification of things. Truth be told, no matter how he acts, he love stuff like that. I just put up with his vanity and genius because he is the real thing."

And you love him," I interjected.

" Yes, that too," dad agreed.

"Now, will you hand me that tin? I think that's enough heavy talk for one day. I think we should both have a chocolate biscuit or two." my dad said casually.

If you decide to read further, you will probably learn that when I give myself a project I tend to go to the extremes to work on whatever it is.

That night, I not only started a private blog. I didn't want my thoughts exposed to the world. In the privacy of my room I started trying to write as much of my early childhood memories down as possible. As a result, my blog reads as part memory dump and therapeutic rant.

Ever since I have started writing the blog, I have challenged myself to try to write honestly. This honesty means that sometimes even great people who are genuinely good guys don't always come across as perfect. 

Now, I'm much older than I was that afternoon when I sat drinking tea and eating chocolate biscuits with my dad, Dr. John Watson. 

I'm now in my 20s. I've written blog posts for years.  
Now I think it's time to try to put them together in more of a narrative for other people to read.  
Who knows, this might be the first draft of my memoirs.  
The truth is, if my life ever merits having a book written about it, I'm going to need some practice writing about it for other people.  
I'm the kind of person who needs to practice at pretty much everything before I managed to do things right.

I'm sure that not everything I write, especially about my childhood will come across as the reflections of a mature person.  
Now that I'm the age that I always used to think of as grown-up, I'm starting to understand that no one really feels mature enough for their age.  
At least, I hope I'm not the only one who feels that way.

What follows is a rough draft of my memoirs. In school I liked history class, especially when we could read first person accounts of important time periods.  
I hope I can communicate to others an understanding of the world I live in.  
I also hope to give readers a sense of what it was like growing up with the crazy consulting detective and Dr. blogger who I am lucky enough to call parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, any recognizable characters, or anything else from the real world that you recognize. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters are mine.


	2. Chapter 1: Introducing Some Basic Facts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, any recognizable characters, or anything else from the real world that you recognize. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters are mine.

My father gets irritated when he has to explain or talk about what is obvious.  
But what is obvious to him is not obvious to everyone. People get irritated when he does not explain things.  
With that in mind, let me start by explaining some of the basic facts.  
My name is Sophia.  
I am in my 20s..  
My alpha dad is Dr. John Hamish Watson.  
My Omega father is Sherlock Holmes.  
My alpha uncle is Mycroft Holmes.  
My granny/landlady is Mrs. Hudson.

These are basic facts, but I understand why some might still be confused. For years, most thought and taught that alpha men and women are supposed to act like possessive, modern-day cavemen. Omega men and women were thought of as child-rearing nurturers. Fortunately, those stereotypes are no longer the only socially acceptable options for people. That said, even in an increasingly progressive society, my parents and their arrangement still seems odd. My father has enough intelligence and sarcasm in his little finger to make most alphas turn into blubbering, cowering messes. My doctor dad is an alpha who is more likely to give my father an admiring and bashful smile instead of throwing him over his shoulder. Don't get me wrong, my jumper wearing alpha dad can be aggressive and even deadly, but only in a life-threatening situation.  
Years before I was born my father became the first consulting detective for Scotland Yard. Shortly after that, my parents met and my dad started his blog. The blog quickly became an Internet sensation as my father started explaining his science of deduction to my dad. My dad started writing those explanations down for everyone else. As long as my parents keep entertaining people and helping catch criminals they are largely considered 'eccentric' and not perverted.

Unfortunately for me, most people expect any children of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to be equally eccentric. Most people are less surprised by the fact that my dad is the alpha parent, than they are by the fact that the daughter of Sherlock Holmes can't deduce a stranger’s life story from glancing at a coffee stain on their left trouser leg.  
Don't get me wrong, I'm not stupid, I just don't think like my father.

If you've ever read some of the crazy comments on my dad's blog or listened to grumpy detectives who haven't slept in two days, you might think that all my fathers knowledge and deductions come out of thin air. I know my father is super smart, he's Sherlock Holmes after all. I also know that he works hard at learning about things he thinks are important. On the bad days my father likes to sulk and say everything is dull and tedious. The truth is though my father even gets bored of sulking. Apparently, this used to mean that my dad's gun would become my father's toy and granny's wall would be his chosen victim. 

After I was born my dad put his foot down and made my father promised to play with books instead of guns. Now on the bad days my father will review scientific journals about things like tooth decay and putrefaction. He also has an arrangement with some of the journals to review the articles before they get published. 

My father likes this because he helps in his words, "stop idiots from infecting the world with their nonsensical drivel." 

Sometimes attacking the article with a red pen isn't enough. After an article looks more like a crime scene rather than a manuscript covered in streaks of red, my father will resort to furiously texting the author of the articles about their unworthiness to exist. So far my father has caused at least five of the world's most renowned criminologists to have mental breakdowns, and those are just the breakdowns I know about. My dad tries to wrestle the phone away from my father when he gets too irate. The breakdowns typically happen when my dad is at the surgery and it's a choice between my father yelling at a grown person or yelling at me. I know this is selfish, but I'm sorry geniuses and field experts have to fend for themselves against my father. I get called an idiot far too much as it is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter may contain a non-consent trigger.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, any recognizable characters, or anything else from the real world that you recognize. No copyright infringement is intended. Pll original characters are mine.

Chapter 2: The Stuff of Nightmares

Some people may wonder why the daughter of a self proclaimed sociopath has never doubted that she is loved by said parent. The greatest evidence I can offer for the I am loved argument is that I exist at all.

Once again let me state the obvious in an effort to be clear. To date, scientists and doctors say that only Omega men and women can bare and give birth to children. On the other side of the coin, alphas are the only ones with the physical equipment and wherewithal to get said Omegas pregnant during heat. Frankly, I don't know the age of the people who might be reading this so I won't go into detail about what heat is. In fact, if you still don't know where babies come from your too young to be reading this anyway.

Let me get back to the discussion at hand. If you're old enough to be reading this you know that in order for me to exist my parents had to go through heat and my work obsessed father had to go through nine months of inconvenient pregnancy. Yet here I am, a 10-year-old skinny kid with my father's curly black hair and my dad's green eyes.. If you've heard anything about my father then you know that as the world's only consulting detective, he lives, eats, and breaths weird crime scenes. I say he lives, breathes, and eats crime scenes because he certainly won't eat anything else when he is on a case and don't even think about mentioning something as mundane as sleeping.

It's really hard to live, breath, and eat crime scenes when you're pregnant body transport insists that you eat large quantities of pickles with peanut butter instead and your doctor husband enforces bed rest for the final month of said pregnancy.

My dad says before I was born his nightmares were about getting shot in Afghanistan or watching my father fake his death by jumping off a building. But every time I've had to shake him awake after he has fallen asleep in his chair in the main room, all my dad will say is that he was back in that black final month. That enforced bed rest really did try my parent’s marriage. My father ignored his pregnant body transport for as long as he could and the doctors said that if he didn't go on bed rest he would have a miscarriage and they would lose me. I know my father loves me because he willingly went on bed rest for a week which is an eternity for a board Sherlock Holmes. For the other three weeks ID Gregory Lestrade and my dad tried to keep father occupied by giving him super old case files to look at. My nursery was not covered in pastel colors and pictures of ABC blocks, instead the walls were decorated with autopsy reports and photos of blood splatter. Unfortunately, many of those old case files just made the bed rest worse for my father who insisted that he had to see the crime scenes in order to solve the cases. The notes of incompetent policeman were no substitute for being on location. The bed rest arguments kept getting more and more heated for the following two weeks. For the final week my dad forcibly admitted my father to the hospital where nurses did not hesitate to use mind-numbing sedatives to keep my father in bed. 

Losing his ability to control his body and most importantly his mind was a major betrayal and nightmare for my father to endure. I naturally love being alive, but let me take this moment to say that what my dad did was wrong. I just want to say that because no one ever talks about what he did. EVER. I also haven't said anything before because I don't know what I would have done in my dad’s place. I'm happy to be alive and I'm so sorry it rendered my father betrayed and helpless.

The only reason I know about what my dad did is because my dad talks in his sleep and I listen to him before waking him. My Father does not handle losing control or betrayal well. Fortunately, my father is the strongest person I know and he keeps his word.  
My father swore to always love and honor my dad for better or worse in sickness and in health. It took a lot of bone deep love, trust, and honesty to get my parents to the justice of the peace saying and meaning those vows. 

Maybe sometime I will write down the epic story of how my parents went from being friends to being husbands. Right now though, I have my hands full telling this part of the story, so let me get back to it. 

My dad loved/loves me so much that he took away my father's free will so that I could be born safely. By taking away his free will my dad broke his vow to honor his spouse. In contrast, I know my father has kept his vow to love my dad. After my birth the doctor placed me in my father's arms. 

At that moment, my father looked down at me and then up at my dad and said," I forgive you and I love our little girl."

Don't start with the awes just yet. After all, I still shake my dad awake after he starts shouting," I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm so sorry!!"

As some of you reading this may know, it is sometimes easier to forgive a person who has wronged you than it is to rebuild a bond of trust and for the person in the wrong to forgive themselves. I have thought about this a lot, and I think the reason my dad still has bad dreams about that last month ten years later is because his real fear is that the rebuilding of trust and self forgiveness will never truly be complete. 

That fear is the stuff of real nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!!  
> PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!!!  
> PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS,  
> THANKS!!!


	4. Chapter 3: The Early Education of an Idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has been kind enough to leave comments and reviews!!! I really truly appreciate you guys supporting me and helping me become a better writer, thank you!!!  
> *PLEASE READ THIS NOTE*I made a few big changes to the story. I have changed the main character Sophia from age 10 to having her be in her 20s looking back at her childhood and more. Please go back to the Omegaverse notes and read the preface I've added.  
> I know these are big and unusual changes to make it this point in the story, but I think it will make for a better read long term. Thank you for your understanding and please tell me what you think by leaving a comment and/or kudos, thank you!!!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, any recognizable characters, or anything else from the real world that you recognize. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters are mine.

Compared with my dad's nightmares, mine seems pretty tame. That tameness doesn't stop my heart from feeling like it will both pound out of my chest and drop to hell whenever I dream of the periodic table.

Both my parents were quite invested in helping me receive a good early education. For my dad, like most parents, a good early education meant teaching me to identify colors and learning my ABCs.  
For my father, however, early education did not consist of merely learning the boring ABCs, but more importantly learning all the elements on the periodic table.  
Today I try to remember the elements of the periodic table by keeping them as colorful fish in a fish tank in my memory palace. 

My memory palace, another part of my father's unconventional teaching methods. My father relies on his incredible memory to help him remember facts that in turn help him solve cases. Facts like the 243 different types of tobacco ash. He remembers all of this information by storing it in his memory palace. A memory palace is a place that you can picture very clearly in your mind's eye. 

When my father started teaching me this memory technique he had me picture my bedroom in the flat. I pictured my bed with its purple bedspread and flowery pillows. I pictured my wooden dresser with its four drawers. I pictured my lamp, trash bin, closet, and teddy bear named Fred. All of these things were assigned a piece of information to help store and remember. I thought of my bed and I thought of my wake up time 7:30 a.m. I tried to make the drawers of my dresser hold the important phone numbers I needed to remember. I attempted to force my shirt drawer to hold my father's cell phone number. I struggled to do the same thing with my trouser drawer and my dad's work number at the surgery. I even tried to cram granny Hudson's phone number into my sock drawer and so on. 

The problem with my early memory palace was the same problem I had with trying to learn from father, everything was too much too quickly. Now I know that in order to successfully store and remember things in my memory palace I need to break up information into tiny chunks. My dresser can better hold one phone number instead of three. Instead of storing a whole number each dresser drawer should hold a clumping of two or three numbers. With this clumping of information I am able to open up all the dresser drawers from top to bottom and will correctly assemble/remember a phone number. 

A lot of frustration and tears could have been avoided if my father and I had slowed down.But to my father slowing down meant boredom, which is to be avoided at all costs. Apparently, trying to soothe a sobbing toddler whaling," I can't remember I just can't," is more interesting than breaking down basic information into teeny tiny bits of data. Sorry if I sound bitter, remembering those early lessons with my father is not exactly a happy task.

Then again, not all of my early memories of learning from my father are bad.Not many people would call my father a good parent if they witnessed him trying to teach me things in the beginning. They may have seen my tears and frustration, but my father would be quick to point out that they should also pay attention to what they would not have seen. Even when we were both frustrated, tired, and thoroughly fed up, my father never stopped trying to help me learn. 

Some of my most tender early memories are of him playing me the violin. After awkwardly trying to pat me on the back as a way to make me stop crying, my dad would carry me over to the couch and would play me a private concert of Bach or Handle until I would fall asleep. 

The idea of picturing my bedroom as a memory palace had to be abandoned.After so many failed attempts to store information in my memory palace bedroom I could not look at the actual objects in my room without thinking of all those failures. I wish I could have looked at my sock drawer and remembered my granny's phone number.  
Instead, after a hard day of trying to learn with my father, all I could remember by looking at my sock drawer was how my father kept patiently repeating, "No, the middle sequence you are struggling with is 239 not 392, Sophia. Remember?"  
The associations of failure with my bedroom got to be so bad that every time my dad would come home from surgery and try to put me to bed I would just burst into tears all over again.  
I would often end up begging my dad and father not to make me go into my bedroom.  
"Please don't make me think about the bedroom anymore I don't want to, I don't want to!!"  
I'm sure such outbursts led to my dad angrily interrogating my father. Ironically though, crying so much about my bedroom would make me fall asleep, so I don't remember ever overhearing my parents fight. 

It must have been after said fights that movie time was established for whenever my father was watching me. The deal was that my father and I would still have learning time but learning time could only be an hour and a half. Now I realize that an hour and a half is still a long time to force a small child to sit down and focus on school-like things. My guess is that during their 'negotiations' my dad had to pick his battles, and an hour and a half is a lot better than all morning.

As part of the new arrangement, I was rewarded for that hard hour and a half of learning by being allowed to watch a kid friendly movie afterwards. I think the initial deal was that after learning time was telly time because I have memories of my tortured father's expression as we watched 'Teletubbies' together. After being forced to watch such a program, I am surprised my father did not attempt to rip out his own eyeballs and soak them in lye. 

I'm pretty sure the stupidity of the daytime children's television is what caused my father to seek relative relief in watching a Disney movie instead. Just because watching Disney was better, did not stop my father from criticizing said movies vehemently. 

I can remember laughing until my sides hurt listening to him rant about the stereotypical portrayal of Omega Princess Jasmine using her body to distract the evil alpha sorcerer. All the while, dancing me around the room with me wearing one of my many princess dresses. Despite my father's many objections regarding the Disney franchise, it was to no one's surprise that I quickly became a little Disney Princess fanatic. My imagined memory palace changed from my bedroom to the palace shown on top of the Disney logo that appears at the beginning of every Disney movie. 

Now hold on, I see some of you readers smirking. Don't judge, I'm hardly the first little girl enthralled by cartoon Omega princesses.  
I remember eating cereal out of my pink Princess Bowl one morning and listening to my father complain to my dad that I am watching 'Beauty and the Beast' too much. 

"I mean, really. I have to sit through watching that movie over and over again. Honestly, I think our child might have a problem with spasticity. She has seen the film 50 million times and she STILL jumps a kilometer in the air when she hears the townspeople shouting 'Bonjour!!" My father exclaimed to dad. 

My Dad and I have learned to patiently wait out my father's rants.  
After all the Disney rants, my dad and I would always end up giggling. My father can look quite funny when he is enraged by popular culture.  
“Well at least Soph likes the heroine who reads," my dad would say while trying to smother his laughter. 

One time I remember my father suggesting to do a Bonjour experiment on me.  
“I could just attach some electrodes and monitor her startle reaction. The electrodes don't hurt and she will be watching the movie anyway. I can vary the volume of the TV set to see if that makes any difference. The whole thing would be really rather harmless. Come on John, don’t be so unreasonable," my father told my dad in what was supposed to be a cajoling voice. 

“No. No experiments, no exceptions!! It’s a slippery slope with you, experiments, and Soph. The one time I let you do experiments with the baby food and she still won't eat bananas!!" My dad answered firmly. 

I realize that in most of these childhood recollections, it seems like whatever my dad said is what happened. My dad's word is by no means law like it is in 'traditional' households.  
My father has always gotten his way on crime scenes, and he has never once had to do the grocery shopping for the family. It's just when it comes to my welfare, my dad tends to be more alpha than otherwise. 

Truth be told, though, my dad and I did do the specificity volume experiment and many other ones like it once my dad left to do his shift at the surgery. Those experiments were my father's and my little secrets. 

Trying and failing for a year to memorize the elements on the periodic table is what convinced my father to insist that I see a developmental specialist.  
My father was so vehement about this that my dad gave in as long as my father wasn't the one doing tests on me.  
My father is an unusual parent, he is frustrating, tender, and stubborn. 

Sometimes he would absentmindedly call me an idiot, but for a long time I didn't know what the word meant.  
My dad explained calling someone an idiot is practically my father using an endearment.  
The only time my father has ever made me feel truly like an idiot growing up is when I watched his face after the developmental specialist told my parents and me that I have a learning disability. 

My father has the ability to delete information from his memory palace when he no longer wants it. I desperately wish I had that skill because the first thing I would delete would be my memory of my father's expression after hearing the news. It was not an expression of disgust or anger. Instead, my father Sherlock Holmes looked at me with a mix of pity, love, and disbelief. My father didn't have to say anything because his expression told me loud and clear that I was an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked my discription of a memory palace then you should check out "Upon This Throne" by ifonlynotnever.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/339258  
> This story is very well-written and it inspired a lot of this chapter, THANKS ifonlynotnever!!


	5. Chapter 4: What impresses Sherlock Holmes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> I'm posting one more chapter tonight because I would feel really mean if I left you guys with the end of last chapter.  
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter by leaving comments and/or kudos, thank you!!!
> 
>  Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, any recognizable characters, or anything else from the real world that you recognize. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters are mine.

I don't know how this is possible but my memory of the cab ride back to Baker Street from the specialist is both clear and a blur at the same time. It's like my overwhelmed brain could only make individual observations instead of seeing the whole picture. I remember that it was raining. I remember that I sat by one of the cab windows. I remember looking over at my parents and seeing that their hands were intertwined. I remember watching my father grip my dad's hand so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. I remember going back to looking at the rain through the window after that. I remember thinking that having a defective brain meant that I would always be a disappointment for my father.

As far as I could tell there were two ways I could deal with having a faulty brain with a learning disability. One strategy was just to give up and sit on the couch watching cartoons or listening to Granny Hudson complain about her hip instead of working so hard to build up my memory palace. While this option was tempting, I did not think either of my parents would let me get away with it. The only other option I saw was to devote myself completely to learning as much as possible. This way I could manage not to disappoint my father at least some of the time.

Now some of you reading this, like my older and wiser self, probably want to shake the self defeatism right out of my little head. Fortunately for your sanity and for my little head, my father decided to sit me down for a talk while dad busied himself by making tea. As you can imagine there are disadvantages to having a father who spends his life observing everything about everyone. Some of those disadvantages might sometimes also be classified as mixed blessings. I knew that my father could tell everything I was thinking and struggling with just by a glance or maybe even less, I don't know.

He caught me off guard, however, when he didn't spew out his observations and disappointments in a flood of words Some people call my father a detective, some people call my father a freak, but sometimes I think my father is primarily a showman. Granted, he usually does his performances at gruesome crime scenes… But he is a showman nonetheless. My father's favorite trick is to overwhelm everyone around him with a torrent of information and observations that leave them stunned and amazed. So you can understand why my little four-year-old self was bracing for a string of disappointed and angry words to be directed at me. Instead, what followed was the only example I've ever had of my father showing tact. I realize that such an introduction to an important father daughter moment might seem harsh, maybe this part of the story will be revised in a later draft of my memoirs, but as it stands right now, just go with it.

Instead of the angry tirade I was expecting, my father just sprawled on the couch like normal and steepled his fingers under his chin in his thinking pose. Just when I was starting to think that he had retreated into his memory palace and had forgotten that I was in the room, my father started talking in a very contemplative tone of voice.  
“Sophia, do you know why I named you Sophia?" he asked me.

"Because your great aunt was named Sophia and it was the first Holmes family name Dad thought was halfway decent," I said in the voice people use when they're repeating something they've heard others say a lot.

My answer was rewarded with the sound of my Dad's snort of laughter from the kitchen and an inpatient gesture of the head from my father.

"Yes, yes, but do you know the important reason?"  
I shook my head no while looking down at the floor. It felt particularly bad admitting I didn't know something just after hearing the news from the specialist.  
I tried to swallow around a lump in my throat as Father responded in a carefully casual tone.

“Very few things impress me," Father said.

I heard another snort of laughter coming from Dad in the kitchen.  
Father continued like he didn't hear. "I was impressed by your dad when he had the good sense to be amazed by my brilliance instead of telling me off," Father's lips twitched up in a small smile.

"I was also impressed when I visited the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul," Father said.  
Before my father could continue talking, Dad's head popped around the doorframe of the kitchen.

"When were you in Turkey?" My dad asked Father, his face scrunched up in puzzlement.

"Turkey like the birds?" I asked also confused.

"No," Father responded to me first.

"Both your father and I are referring to the republic of Turkey, which is a country mostly located on Anatolia in Western Asia and on East Thrace in Southeastern Europe.

"Here, bring me my phone and I'll show you," Father says with a snap of his fingers.  
When my father is on the couch, he doesn't like to move off it unless it is for a case. I took the two steps that separated my father from his phone and handed it to him.  
After a few brief moments, my father is very good with his phone, he showed me a picture of Turkey and then a picture of Hagia Sophia with all its domes.  
After another moment, my father took his phone away and started texting as he talked.

"The Hagia Sophia is one of those buildings you will learn about in history class when you go to school," Father told me.

"Architecturally, the Hagia Sophia is significant because it was the first building that used domes as an architectural support. Historically, the building is also significant because it was originally a Greek Orthodox Church and then it became a mosque when the Muslims took over that part of the world from the Christians," Father explained.

My mouth dropped open, and I interrupted him before he could continue.  
" YOU were impressed by a CHURCH?!"

I remember that the look of shock on my face made my father smirk and made my dad start laughing again. 

"It used to be a church and a mosque, now it's a museum. Besides, I was impressed by the man-made building not what it was used for. The Hagia Sophia was one of the first buildings I ever walked into and felt small. That building is a testament to human ingenuity and aspirations to greatness." My father told Dad and me.

Now if my life was a sappy Hallmark movie, my memory palace would have transformed into the Hagia Sophia, and we would live happily ever after.

My life is not a Hallmark movie, so things just got awkward instead.

There was a few moments of silence before I realized that Father was looking at me as if he was expecting me to say something.

As too often happens in this situation, I had no idea what he wanted me to do.  
After another few moments, Father prompted me, "Don't you want to ask me if there has been anything else that has impressed me?"

"Is there?" I dutifully asked. Truth be told I had totally forgotten about the beginning of our conversation. My mind was still focused on the building that could make Sherlock Holmes feel small.

“Yes, you," Father said in all seriousness.

"What?" I said in stunned shock.

Father swung his feet on to the floor so he was looking me in the eye as he talked.

“The most impressive thing, or rather person, I have ever seen is you," he said.

"The Hagia Sophia brought home to me that intelligent men can do incredible things when they put their mind to it.

"But the awe I felt looking up at those domes was nothing, not even close, to the wonder and amazement I felt when I held you in my arms and looked down at you for the first time..

"From the very first moment, I knew you were and are going to be great," Father said with absolute conviction.

To say that hearing such sentiment come from Sherlock Holmes' mouth was overwhelming would be a massive understatement.  
But let me finish recording everything about that conversation before I comment with the 20-20 vision that comes from looking into the past.

By this point in our conversation, I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open and my head was shaking back and forth in stunned denial.  
This time my father continued before I could interrupt or disagree with what he was saying.

"You know I don't say things without having evidence to support my assertions," Father said.

"All the evidence I needed to know that you are someone special was there when I looked into your eyes for the first time.

"With such overwhelming evidence, the fact that you're smart is painfully obvious. Why I'm sure even Anderson will sense your mental superiority the first time you consult with me at a crime scene."

"When you are much, much older," Dad quickly interjected between his gulps of tea.  
"John, will you let me finish?" Father asked Dad in a falsely irritated tone.

"Yeah, Dad, let Father finish his story," I agreed in a stubborn tone of voice that only little kids can pull off.

Outnumbered, my dad waved his teacup in surrender and my father continued telling us the story.  
"As I was saying, everyone who has ever seen you knows that you have a brain as beautiful as your smile, Dad told me as I inevitably smiled at the complement. "Using my own considerable mental powers, I looked at you and I thought of the Hagia Sophia, not only because of how it made me feel, but also because of its name specifically.

"Do you know what the name Hagia Sophia means?" Father asked me.

"No," I said. Dad and I were both completely focused on Father absolutely captivated by the story.

"Hagia Sophia in Greek means holy wisdom, which means that Sophia means...?" Father prompted me.

"Wisdom," I said uncertainly.

"Correct," Father said with a small pleased smile twitching up the corners of his mouth.  
I didn't think Father's gaze could get any more serious or intense, but it did as he took my hands in his and said the next thing.

"I still see that wisdom in your eyes. It is not going anywhere. Over time it will only grow in size and beauty. I know our trip to the specialist today has made you feel a bit shaken up inside. Your dad and I are also trying to adjust.

"But here is the important thing you need to know. Your dad and I did not take you to that specialist because we thought you weren't intelligent or that there is something wrong with you. I insisted we go see the specialist because I could tell that you and I do not think the same way." My father explained.

"Which is not to say that there is anything wrong with the way your brain works," my dad was quick to add.  
"Well obviously,” my father responded with what I like to call his eye–roll– tone–of– voice.

"It is of course fine that your brain works differently, but that also means that we have to start teaching you differently.

"Part of the reason it's so hard for you to learn right now is because I made a miscalculation in the way I was teaching you," he said.

For the record, that statement is the closest I've ever heard to my father give a sincere apologize for anything.

"Remember, your mental hard drive should only hold the important facts, there is no room for nonessentials," my father reminded me.

“Here are the obviously important things you need to remember from today. We learned that your brain works a bit differently than mine. This means that you need to work hard to learn especially as we change things around.

"Now let me explain a little of the rest of it. Your brain wants to be like me but sometimes it's like your dad. It may see things of importance, but it has trouble observing what the important things mean.

"Hey," Dad objected.  
Father brushed off his objection with an inpatient hand gesture. He was clearly on a roll.

"This trouble processing important things is what is called a learning disability. I'm not going to worry about word choice. Some people have issues with the word disability, but that's not really important. What is really important is that you understand that with hard work and the right help, your beautiful brain will reach its full and great potential."

I didn't understand all of the big fancy words my father was using, but that was normal. After all, my father likes to use fancy words to impress people.

That said, I did understand that he was trying to say that he loves me and that everything is going to be okay.

This comfort from my father was supposed to make me happy and it did, but that happiness took the form of relieved sobbing, sobbing that soaked into the shoulder of my father's black coat.

Let me just say it now, I am a crier, a fact that my father had to resign himself to a long time ago. So his reaction to my sob fest wasn't as awkward as you might expect.  
He patted my back with the one hand while texting on his phone with the other. At the same time, he carried me up to bed for an overdue nap while continuing to talk. What can I say? With an active brain like my father's, he had to learn how to multitask. 

As he was carrying me up to my bedroom, Father said," There, there, don't let specialists upset you. They're like doctors. They usually miss the big picture and all the important things," my father said in a reassuring and soothing tone of voice

"Hey!" my dad objected again sounding both affronted and amused.

I had my eyes closed by that point, but I just know my father must have been smirking and looking back over his shoulder at my dad who was following us upstairs.

My father's next words were addressed to my dad. "By the way, you asked about when and why I was in Turkey? I was there on family business. Speaking of family business, you should know that I just texted Mycroft. As much as I am loath to admit it, we need him."

I vaguely remember hearing my dad object.  
My father quickly interrupted him in his no-nonsense voice. "Mycroft has the resources and connections to make sure that our daughter has all the tools and help shall need for the best education. I will not settle for anything less!!" My father said definitively.  
I could hear his determination through the rumble in his chest as I began to doze off.

Finally, Father got me under my covers and kissed me on the forehead before saying, "Sweet dreams, when you wake up you will get to meet your uncle Mycroft.

Looking back at that pivotal afternoon in my life, I am grateful for three things.

I am grateful that my parents love me.

I am grateful that I did not know about the black month of bed rest at the time when my father told me the story behind my name.  
And I am so grateful that my parents let Uncle Mycroft into my life.


	6. 5: Meeting Umbrella Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, any recognizable characters, or anything else from the real world that you recognize. No copyright infringement is intended. All original characters are mine.
> 
> Hey guys,
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to leave comments and or kudos!!!  
> Comments and kudos help keep me excited about the story, which in turn keeps me writing. If you want to see more, please give me some feedback, thank you!!
> 
> I also wanted to let you know that future updates will be moving a bit slower.  
> I wrote these chapters before I started posting. Writing itself is a bit of a slow process for me because I use voice activated software to type.  
> So please leave feedback and please be patient, thank you!!!
> 
> Megawords19

Is it blue or black? That was the question I remember wondering when I saw the umbrella propped against the wall in the front hall.

I had just come downstairs from my nap. I was still yawning and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, but I noticed the umbrella because it seemed so out of place in the flat. 221B Baker Street could very generously be called lived-in. My father demands high-quality in coat tailoring and lab equipment, but in terms of his style and home decor, he thinks everything else can go to hell. My dad has spent a long time as my father's full-time blogger, that job doesn't exactly come with a stable paycheck. Long story short, the price of something means more to Dad than its quality.

I just reread the last few sentences and I just realized that I sound like a disgusted snob. I like our flat. The place definitely has its own personality crafted by a sloppy genius and those who revolve around him.   
Going back to my original observation, the blue-black and designer looking umbrella really stood out in the apartment.

The umbrella actually looked soft. I had never seen an umbrella that practically screamed high quality and upper class, but this one did. Then I touched it. Don't look at me like that, I was a little kid. Of course I touched it.  
The umbrella was dry; it had not rained when I was asleep. In fact, it was gently sunny outside.  
Even little kid me wondered why somebody would have an umbrella when it's nice and sunny out.  
All this wondering took mere seconds, if that and it all happened before I entered the main room. 

As soon as I entered the main room, I was drawn to the stranger sitting primly on father's sofa. In the back of my mind, I noticed that the man was wearing a suit which matched the expensive blue-black umbrella perfectly. I also vaguely noted that he was drinking tea from one of Granny Hudson's fancy pink china cups.

These cups are so fancy that I wasn't allowed to hold them when I was little. These cups were and are only borrowed when very important, grown-up guests are at the flat. I don't think my dads and I actually own a fancy tea set. I'm pretty sure that my dad thinks that Father would just break all the cups or do experiments on the china or something. Granny Hudson and I have always agreed with that assessment. That agreement is why the pink china cups are/were only borrowed for when very special people visit. In order to borrow these prized cups, Dad must spend at least 20 minutes commiserating with Mrs. Hudson about her hip and other ailments related to getting old. Then he must also have sworn on a stack of Bibles that no intentional breakage or experimentation on said china would occur when these precious cups were out of her possession. The cups themselves really aren't that pretty and look like something my granny would have bought secondhand in the '50s. I think they are one of the few things Granny Hudson has held on to from the time she was married to a murderer. I think the cups are fussed over so much because they have sentimental value for her.

Okay, so you're probably wondering why I'm going on and on about some fancy but dated china cups. The cups were like neon signs communicating that I needed to be on my very best behavior in front of this guest.

Unfortunately, very good behavior, or normal behavior was not going to happen. I noticed the stranger's suit, I noticed that the stranger had one leg crossed over the other as part of his perfect posture, and I noticed the pink china cup he was drinking out of, but all that was very, very much secondary. Now that I'm ten and relatively close to puberty, whenever anyone talks about Alphas acting like Alphas they are talking about what happens in the bedroom during heat. I don't understand why people reduce discussions about their natural orientation behaviors to talking about what only happens in the bedroom.

The first time I met alpha Uncle Mycroft, I noticed the things mentioned above in an agitated kind of way. It was like my mind just wanted to hurry up and finish with observing the details so it could completely focus on the main thing that had me craving to get closer to him.

The pull.

When an Alpha is in complete Alpha mode, it never crosses anyone's mind that the person in question was born to be anything but a leader.  
When an Alpha is in Alpha mode, they draw others to them. They naturally protect Omegas who naturally are inclined to submit and show affection in return.

Most Alphas do not stay in Alpha mode for extended periods of time. Being the leader, being focused on constantly scanning for threats, and being instinctually focused on offering comfort to others, is just too difficult and draining for most Alphas to maintain long-term.

My dad, Dr. John Watson, for example, only goes into Alpha mode if he feels that I am not getting the best care or if somebody has endangered Father, his Omega.  
To say that Uncle Mycroft is not like most Alphas, is such an understatement that it is quite frankly laughable.  
That day my uncle sat perfectly at ease and out of place in the flat calmly drinking tea out of a pink china cup, but his natural alpha magnetism was so strong that it was pulling my body towards him with the inexorable power of a black hole.

The closer I got to the sofa and Uncle Mycroft, the more fragmented and instinctual my thoughts became..

I need to behave.

I need to touch him.

He is an Alpha.

He will protect me.

He is safety..

I need to touch him.

I need to follow him..

I need to touch him..

Must touch...

Later when I asked Dad what he saw that day, he said that as soon as I entered the room everything stopped. He said it was like watching nature happen in front of his very eyes.  
I had to ask Dad what he saw that day because at the time all my attention was focused exclusively on Uncle Mycroft.

I remember watching Uncle Mycroft use one of Father's science journals as a coaster for his teacup. I remember him uncrossing his legs and focusing entirely on me. I remember standing in front of him and fidgeting in place. I probably looked like I really needed to use the washroom, but what I was really trying to do was not to give into my impulse to touch him.

Around that time, my dad recalls watching me put my little hands on my hips and declaring," You look like you're a good hugger!!"

I do remember that getting hugged by Uncle Mycroft feels like all the best benefits of a hug and acupuncture combined. Uncle Mycroft has very large and careful fingers. He seemed to unerringly find all of the pressure points on my back and relieve the pressure of the day instantly.

I remember being in this super comfortable haze.   
To this day, whenever I am hugged by Uncle Mycroft, I feel unequivocal acceptance, love and safety. It is one of the most amazing feelings in the world.

During that first hug, it felt very natural to turn my neck to the side and expose my neck in submission and deference to the Alpha.  
While I was doing this, something settled deep inside me.

Blood tests still haven't confirmed it, because I have not started puberty yet, but deep inside that day I became aware that I am an Omega


	7. My Living, Breathing Safe Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> I am so sorry it took me so long to update. I had computer problems and a bit of writer's block to contend with. Thank you so very much for your patience!!
> 
> I hope this chapter proves to be worth the wait. I am EXTREMELY grateful to all those who were kind enough to leave me comments and kudos. Thanks also to whoever paid me the tremendous compliment of bookmarking this story. I really, truly appreciate everyone's WONDERFUL support!!! Please keep the comments, kudos and support coming, THANK YOU!!!
> 
> Also if any have you have the time, I would really appreciate having someone beta this story, thanks!!
> 
> 　

One day shortly after I first met uncle Mycroft my dad said that uncle Mycroft was going to take me to the park for a little bit. My journal has several entries describing such park outings. 

　

Living with my parents could sometimes be very difficult. I'm not talking about my dad's nightmares or my father's sulky moods. Sometimes it was hardest for me to live with my parents when they were at their most happy and active.

　

Over the years, I've learned to accept that I'm a slow person. Being a slow person doesn't mean that someone is stupid, it just means things come easier to people like me if we are unhurried.

　

As I mentioned before, my father is the complete opposite. He is happiest when he is solving a case with his thoughts and observations jumping out of his memory palace into a whirlwind of activity inside his mind.

　

My dad is much the same way. Before I was born he had a psychosomatic limp because he was and is an adrenaline junkie who was bored before meeting father.

　

Both my parents become giddy with excitement when the game is on, as my father would say. To them excitement and the pressure of solving a case was invigorating and made them feel alive.

　

All this excitement would inevitably lead to a noisy flat. In one of my journal entries I described living with this chaos as like," trying to work and focus on schoolwork while somebody has turned up the telly full blast."

　

Trying to escape such circumstances is where uncle Mycroft and our trips came in.

　

With his matching suit and umbrella uncle Mycroft always gave off the impression of being put together. Combine that outward appearance with his aristocratic poise and inner calm, and he quickly became my living, breathing safe haven.

　

For this first outing with uncle Mycroft dad insisted that I wear my nicest play close.

　

This meant I couldn't wear one of my Disney Princess dresses.

　

I ended up wearing a dress which was covered in stylized pictures of cherries.

　

In my journal I wrote that I was excited that I got to where a bright, cheery red bow that helped keep some of my curls out of my eyes.

　

I also wrote in my journal how it was pretty weird that my dad was the one helping me get ready and not father. Father left early that day. It was unusual for him to leave before helping me get ready for the day. Helping me get ready in the morning was one of the only Omega urges that he did not fight to suppress. Father always liked observing and talking to me in the morning before I was fully awake.

　

He said it was like conversing with a bit of my child subconscious.

　

The morning of the first park outing, I thought that the deviation from the routine was because father was on a case. But even that explanation did not ring true because whenever my father was on a case my dad was right there with him. I remember asking dad about the change in routine, I didn't write down his reply in my journal, but I do remember that dad would not meet my eyes when he answered.

　

I didn't have much time to think about my parents’ behavior that day. After my hair was set I insisted on grabbing one of dad's umbrellas. This umbrella was nothing like the one I saw the day I met uncle Mycroft. Dad's umbrella was dull black and it was flimsy. It was one of those umbrellas he probably bought at the Tesgoes during an unexpected downpour. Nevertheless, this umbrella did help me pretend to be like uncle Mycroft which was the whole point. It was a nice day outside so I doubted that I would actually have to use said umbrella.

　

While I was growing up my family did not have a car. Whenever my father needed to go a long distance or go somewhere fast, he preferred to call a cab. He could always pay a cabbie enough to persuade them to drive like a madman. If he didn't need to go somewhere far or fast, my father liked to walk. He liked listening to the sounds of London and observing things about the people around him that most others do not pay attention to. My dad prefers taking the tube places because it's cheaper than paying for a parking spot in London. All this meant that I understood how to navigate the London tube system from an early age and that I found the insides of non-cab cars interesting. Uncle Mycroft's black car was no exception. 

　

Uncle Mycroft opened one of the passenger doors for me like a real gentleman. The way he treated me like a grown-up made me feel special and important. I think the ability to not necessarily manipulate, but influence someone's feelings around him was one of uncle Mycroft's strengths. He could make others feel like they were powerful and in control when he was really the one pulling the strings.

 

　

I digress, back to the car, the inside of uncle Mycroft's car seemed to be like everything else around him, made to show understated wealth and luxury. The black leather seats felt cool and comfortably squishy.

　

I was so focused on settling into my comfortable seat and buckling my seat belt, that it took a moment for me to realize that I was not alone in the car. Sitting across from me was an elegant woman in her 20s or early 30s who was busy texting on her phone. She must have felt my eyes on her because the woman looked up and gave me a polite, impersonal smile before her eyes returned to looking at her cell phone's screen.

　

A moment or two later uncle Mycroft opened the opposite passenger door and slid into his own seat.

　

"Sophia meet my PA ... he paused for a moment as if he was waiting for the woman to fill in the blank.

　

"Anthea, sir" the woman replied easily.

　

I was confused, why doesn't he know his own PA's name, I wondered.

　

Uncle Mycroft's response made even less sense to me.

　

"Ah, yes Anthea, an oldie but a goodie," uncle Mycroft responded in a tone that I guess you could call polite humor.

　

"Anthea, meet my niece, Sophia," uncle Mycroft introduced us.

　

"Hi," I said uncertainly raising my hand in a small motionless wave.

　

The woman must have seen the confusion and incredulity on my face. This time when she looked at me, her smile was both smaller and a little more genuine looking.

　

"Nice to meet you Sophia. My job requires me to use a lot of different names and be a lot of different people. Anthea is the name your dad knows me by," she explained. 

　

Her explanation was, like everything else about this conversation, both confusing and intriguing, but her eyes had returned back to her phone and I got the impression that Anthea and uncle Mycroft viewed the conversation as over. I would just have to wait until I got home to ask dad about the mysterious Anthea. I settled back in my comfortable seat enjoying a rare few moments of silence as the car moved along.

 

　

Then I felt it, the pull. 

　

I looked nervously between Anthea, uncle Mycroft, and myself. I was sitting by one car door and uncle Mycroft was sitting by the other. The middle seat was between us.

　

I didn't think if we were alone that uncle Mycroft would have minded giving me a hug, but I didn't know what I was supposed to do when there was non-family around like Anthea. I fidgeted around on my seat, not sure what to do. Fortunately, uncle Mycroft looked over at me, and he must think like father because he could understand everything I was feeling with just one look. He gave me a small smile and when one of the traffic lights turned red, he raised one arm as if offering to give me a one armed hug. This was an offer I quickly accepted scooting over to the middle seat and trying to get the seat belt on, before the light turned green. 

　

Uncle Mycroft helped me with the annoying seat belt that just would not click for me, much to my little kid frustration. Once the troublesome seat belt was fastened, uncle Mycroft obligingly put his arm around my shoulders and gave them a friendly squeeze.

　

I slumped against his side, burying one side of my face in the cool, silky fabric of his suit. His suit that day was inky black and so was his matching umbrella which leaned against his leg. The umbrella had a silver handle made to look like a lion lying down. I remember that the combination of feeling uncle Mycroft's alpha pull, rubbing my cheek against his silky suit jacket, and looking at his Silver lion umbrella handle, all helped the same hazy, safe feeling return to me that I felt when we hugged for the first time. This safe feeling helped tension leave my body, tension I didn't even realize I was feeling until it was gone.. I was so wrapped up in this safe feeling that uncle Mycroft had to gently shake my shoulder to help me realize that the car had stopped in front of the park.

　

Just as I was coming back to myself, I saw that Anthea had stopped texting and she was retrieving something from underneath her seat. After a moment, she straightened up and I saw that she was holding a sturdy, brown wicker picnic basket. She held out the basket to uncle Mycroft who took it with a nod of thanks.

　

Anthea gave me one more small smile before she and the car drove away leaving uncle Mycroft and I to bond.

********

I quickly noticed that uncle Mycroft had a lot to carry. He was attempting to hold his umbrella, the picnic basket, and a folded newspaper--all with the one hand, while he held on to my hand with his other. It was one of my parents' rules, as a little kid, I was not allowed to be in a busy public place without holding onto an adult's hand. After a few moments of trying to juggle everything, uncle Mycroft bent down and offered me the folded newspaper.

 

　

"Please due me the favor of holding on to this newspaper until we find a proper bench to sit down on, my dear," he said to me. 

　

Uncle Mycroft could have just put the newspaper in the basket, but I think he understood that I like to feel important and useful.

　

I held onto that seemingly important newspaper so tightly that the paper crinkled in my grip. Unfortunately, it turned out that we were in a part of the park that did not have benches.

　

To my relatively small feet, the search for a bench seem to take forever.

　

I started using dad's umbrella as a walking stick.

 

　

As we walked and walked, the silence between uncle Mycroft and I went from a content silence to a I-don't-know-what-to-say-silence.

　

When the silence had definitely turned awkward, I stopped walking and made some up close and personal observations about uncle Mycroft, before I chose my words very deliberately.

　

"You really don't know how to talk to kids do you," I said to uncle Mycroft. 

　

I said the question like a statement, like my father would.

　

My question seemed to startle uncle Mycroft a little. He stopped walking midstep and turned to face me. One of his eyebrows was raised in inquiry and I could see his grip on his umbrella handle titan ever so slightly.

　

"Ah yes, talking to young ladies your age is not a speciality of mine." uncle Mycroft responded with just a little hesitancy in his cultured voice.

　

I couldn't help but let out a huh laugh.

　

I continued talking quickly, trying to make sure that uncle Mycroft knew that I was not laughing at him.

　

"You sound like father," I explained to uncle Mycroft. Whenever he is unfamiliar with something father does not use the words speciality, but he does say that, 'it is not really his area, " I said.

　

Uncle Mycroft let out a huh laugh of his own.

　

We walked on in silence once more for a few minutes before I spoke up again.

　

"What I am trying to say is that you don't need to worry about talking or not talking with me, it's all fine," I said.

　

Uncle Mycroft gave me a small smile and looked down at me.

　

"Now you sound like your dad," he told me.

　

I shrugged and smiled back.

　

"And if you want to talk then you and I can practice together," I continued.

　

"You don't have experience talking with people?" Uncle Mycroft asked me.

　

"Oh, I get to talk to a lot of interesting people like Granny Hudson and Mr. Angelo who runs the restaurant with the yummy pasta. It's nice to have someone else to talk to though. And I don't have to explain father's behavior to you," I explained with a shrug.

　

"A lot of kids and everyone else for that matter, either wants to get close to me because father's famous, or they want to get far away from me because father likes to talk about things like frozen human eyeballs when he takes me over to somebody's house for a play date."I tell uncle Mycroft with another shrug.

　

I remember how uncle Mycroft had a pained look on his face while I was talking. When I got to the part about eyeballs, he made this noise in the back of his throat, like he was trying to suppress a grown.

　

Just then we finally came across, what uncle Mycroft called, a suitable seating arrangement, in the form of an empty park bench.

　

I dropped on to the bench gratefully and made a half smile half grimace expression when I saw what uncle Mycroft pulled out of the basket first.

　

The first items to be produced were big linen tablecloth sized napkins.

　

Dad obviously told uncle Mycroft that food, gravity, and I don't always get along well. in other words, if there was any way for me to drop food and staine my fancy cherry dress, I would do it.

　

To my surprise though, he did not hand me the first huge napkin. Rather, he got perfectly situated on the bench and then proceeded to tuck his napkin into his crisp white dress shirt like it was a giant bib.

　

There my uncle was, in the middle of a royal park, wearing a bib like it was perfectly natural for him to do so.

 

I couldn't help it, the laughter came bubbling out of me and I couldn't stop even after I clasped both my little kid hands over my mouth.

　

Uncle Mycroft's reaction of just lifting one eyebrow again, just made me laugh harder.

 

　

Eyebrow still raised, uncle Mycroft handed me a napkin bib of my own.

　

Once our clothes were suitably and ridiculously covered by said bibs, uncle Mycroft pulled out several kinds of sandwiches for me to choose from.

There was everything from a PB&J sandwich to one that looked like it had it had pink fish in the middle, probably Salmon.

 

He took out a grown up thermos with tea and a juice box complete with a colorful bendy straw attached to it.

　

For a few minutes uncle Mycroft and I ate our early lunch in silence, watching the River Thames and wearing our ridiculous bibs.

　

I ate the PB&J sandwich because someone had thoughtfully cut off the crusts. Uncle Mycroft had one of the fancier sandwiches.

　

After we were both done and uncle Mycroft and used his bib to meticulously brush crumbs off both our faces, did he return to our conversation, sort of...

　

"You know," he said ponderingly "I find that I am not that interested in frozen eyeballs, but I am interested in what's being reported in the world today. Shall you and I take a look and see what the newspaper is saying,mmm?" 

 

　

He asked me while holding out his hand for me to give him the all important crumpled newspaper.

I eagerly handed him the paper. I'm sure uncle Mycroft noticed the crinkles in his previously pristine paper, but he didn't mention it. Instead, he opened the newspaper wide so that for a moment the paper looked like a large butterfly with newspaper wings flapping gently in the slight breeze.

　

Uncle Mycroft turned a few pages and folded the paper back to a more manageable size. Then once more he raised his arm up, once more silently offering me a one armed alpha hug. I started to feel uncomfortable and unsure again. This time my discomfort was not caused by uncle Mycroft's alpha pull, rather I wasn't sure if he was expecting me to try to read the newspaper allowed.

 

　

I could read some things, but the newspaper, with its tons of big words and small print looked really intimidating.

I hesitated for a moment, but uncle Mycroft wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hand and I accepted his offer for a hug and a closer look at the paper.

I need not have worried about having to demonstrate my lack of reading ability. Like before, uncle Mycroft seemed to understand with a look just what was bothering me, and he addressed the matter without saying a word about it.

 

　

"Now let's see...," he said in a contemplative voice. do you want to hear about the upheaval in Egypt… No, too violent...

Do you want to read about the New York Stock Exchange in America…No, too depressing… Ah, here we go, how about a story about animals at the London Zoo? It looks like there will be a new Jaguar exhibit in a few weeks." He said to me finally looking down and giving me a chance to answer him.

I nodded my head, "yes please," I said while snuggling under his arm, eager to answer before he could reject another story.

 

　

I have always liked animals and the Jaguar exhibit sounded interesting. I vaguely wondered if uncle Mycroft or my parents would take me to see the jungle cat at the zoo if I asked nicely and said please and everything.

*****

I had a lot of questions that I thought about during that first outing. Questions like: why am I just needing uncle Mycroft now?

Why does uncle Mycroft always carry an umbrella? Why is father and dad acting so weird around uncle Mycroft?

Some of these questions will be answered in my later ramblings about growing up In 21B Baker Street.

I did not ask these questions during that first outing with uncle Mycroft. instead, I took comfort from the peacefulness of the park and the reassurance I felt being close to my alpha uncle.

　

Again, I may not have started asking questions in the park, but I did start to like hearing about what's going on in the world. I also started to feel like I could trust uncle Mycroft with both the big and small things in my life and that he would take care of me. That feeling of trust between uncle Mycroft and myself has led to so many things...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, everything about the London Zoo jaguar is completely made up.
> 
> I did some research about the Royal Parks in England as I was writing this chapter. All the parks kind of blurred together in my mind as I was writing. So I think you can place Sophia and Mycroft in any of them that are near or in London.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize from the real world or the Sherlock BBC franchise. No copyright infringement is intended, please do not sue.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos!!! Thank you so much for reading!!!
> 
> TBC...


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